


what a precious basket case

by naughtyskeletonpuns (badskeletonpuns)



Series: if i could burn this town [2]
Category: King Falls AM (Podcast)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blood, Breathplay, Consensual But Not Safe Or Sane, Enemies With Benefits, Enemies to Lovers, Fighting, Friends With Benefits, Hate Sex, Jealousy, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex, THIS IS NOT NICE FOLKS, Tie Kink, Who Are Still Enemies Don't Get Me Wrong
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-31
Updated: 2019-07-31
Packaged: 2020-07-28 03:56:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20057632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badskeletonpuns/pseuds/naughtyskeletonpuns
Summary: A small-town mayor and a washed-up shock jock walk into a bar. To put it lightly, they aren't friends. ... But they're something else, that's for sure. And that something else comes withbenefits.Sexy, sexy benefits.Read the tags, folks, this is FWB verse Sammy/Grisham with background samben. Sammy and Grisham do not like each other one bit, and it shows in the sex. Throw me right in the dumpster if you will, but I'll just write more samsham there.





	what a precious basket case

**Author's Note:**

> this takes place in the summer of the first year of the show—emily and ben are flirting but are not together in any way, and it is before both the valentine’s fiasco and the suplex sammy fight at the best small town in america celebration. title from “choke” by ‘i don’t know how but they found me,’ which is a mood for this fic. art by the invaluable domi and MK, linked by clicking on their respective pictures! y'all are inspirations to meeee

It’s June, and Sammy and Ben are making out in the studio on ad breaks and sneaking up to the roof afterwards to do a bit more than make out. Ben has to keep taking breaks to blow his nose, because “fucking pollen every fucking year,” and it’s gross, but… Sammy keeps kissing him, so it’s not that gross. 

It’s July, and King Falls is hot as sin and, in Sammy’s opinion, so is Ben. 

Look, it’s not his fault that once the temperature gets above ninety, Ben seems to develop a shirt allergy. It’s  _ also _ not his fault that Ben has freckles scattered across his chest and stomach like raindrops, leading the eye along the skin down to his waistband. That month, they only really hook up the once, grinding against each other on Sammy’s couch in semi-darkness after (well, partway through) some shitty PG-13 horror movie. 

Emily and Ben go out for ice cream more than once, and Sammy isn’t jealous. He isn’t. Ben can date whoever he wants. 

It’s August, and neither the tension nor the temperature has dropped since July. 

Ben keeps going on about his plans to go to the park with Emily, and all the cutesy shit he wants to bring on the picnic, and how romantic it’s going to be, and Sammy is—Sammy’s  _ pissed.  _

He’s not used to being so pissed, actually. It’s a novel feeling. 

Since Jack went… Since Jack, Sammy hasn’t felt much at all. He turns on the charm for the broadcasts and keeps just enough of it around other people to avoid concern, but feelings take up a lot of energy he just can’t find lately. 

Except, it seems, when it comes to Ben. 

Ben laughs and Sammy beams. Ben says some bullshit about the supernatural and Sammy wants to  _ shake _ him. Ben flirts with him and Sammy flirts right back and means it. All of which is new. 

And Ben flirts with Emily, and Sammy does  _ not _ sulk in his shitty apartment. 

He sulks in the second-diviest dive bar the small town has. (The dubious honor of first goes to Sassy’s. Sammy’s down, but he’s not that down.)

The lights are flickering and the whole place reeks of stale beer. But the drinks are cheap and strong and there’s no one here to grin at Sammy and make him want to throw away a lifetime of repression, and that’s all he really needs. 

Sammy has barely started on his first drink when the stool next to him shrieks a protest at being used. He lifts his head to tell whichever poor sap is trying to encroach on his brooding to beat it, only to be met with the sleek profile of Mayor Steven Fucking Grisham. 

“I’ll have what he’s having,” Grisham says, with that stupid smug voice, clear as a bell. He tilts his head at Sammy but doesn’t look at him. 

The bartender nods. “Smoky Kingsey it is, then.” 

“Jesus, Stevens,” Grisham continues, quieter this time. He still won’t fucking  _ look _ at Sammy. “Moonshine and rum will kill you faster than they’ll get you drunk.” 

“Interesting.” Sammy takes a drink. It burns all the way down, sharp as glass. 

He takes another drink. 

“You know, public intoxication is against—”

“What the fuck do you even want, Grisham?” Sammy asks. 

The bartender slides Grisham’s drink in front of him, but he pays them no mind. He’s looking at Sammy now, and it’s not just a friendly eye contact kind of look. No, Sammy knows that look. He’s seen that look on his own damn face. It’s got different facets to it on Grisham, with his fuckin’, arched eyebrows and high cheekbones. 

But it still screams of a  _ want _ so desperate it’s turned half-feral. 

“I would appreciate a lot of things.” Grisham takes a sip of his drink, delicate like he’s drinking rosé on a Sunday afternoon. The pause drags on, but Sammy doesn’t take the bait. If Grisham wants something so badly, he can say it like a big boy. “Another term in office. Clean, safe public spaces. This town to continue being the jewel of the Cascades.” 

Sammy can’t help but snort at that. 

“I hear we’re in the running for best small town in America, actually, so you can take your derisive sounds elsewhere.” There’s a little smirk playing at the corner of Grisham’s mouth. His lips are pink, as though he’s been biting them. “It’ll be the seventh year running, if we get it.” 

“I’m sure we’ll be invited to the ceremony,” Sammy says, brusque. He runs his finger through the condensation left by his glass on the countertops—Grisham watches his movements. “Cut the shit.” Sammy doesn’t have the energy for this dance, not after he’s been waltzing with Ben’s goddamn shadow for months, now. “What do you want.” 

There’s another long pause while Grisham sips his drink. It’s odd—Sammy has gotten used to Ben, to being able to read Ben’s tells like they’re his first language. He can’t read Grisham for shit, beyond the obvious. 

Like when Grisham leans into Sammy’s space, still with that tiny smirk on his face. “I think you know what I want,” he murmurs. “I think we should discuss the details of it… in a more private space.” He glances down, daring to be  _ demure _ like he isn’t asking for exactly what he is _ .  _

And Sammy can’t take it, can’t take this back and forth and tension and never knowing where he fucking stands with anyone, ever. He grabs Grisham by the jaw and makes him meet Sammy’s eyes. “I’m not asking again. Tell me what you want,  _ exactly _ what you want, or I’m leaving.” 

Grisham doesn’t even try to pull away or grab at Sammy’s arm. If anything, the fucker leans into it, arches his neck like he wants to make this mess something pretty, something neat and aesthetically pleasing. “I want to go back to your apartment, and,” he’s barely audible now, but he doesn’t look away from Sammy for a moment. “I want… to have a nice discussion about the disturbance caused by your radio—”

Sammy shoves him away, hard enough that Grisham knocks into the counter and sends his drink crashing to the floor. “Oh, fuck off, Grisham!”

“Causing a disturbance, are we?” Grisham asks, and he’s grinning for real now, and Sammy’s never wanted to  _ ruin _ someone so badly. He crowds back into Grisham’s space, keeps him pressed against the hard edge of the counter. He hopes it’s uncomfortable. 

“Hey, uh—” the bartender says, and Grisham waves them off. 

“Put it on my tab.” 

“Taxpayer’s dollars at work?” Sammy snaps. 

Grisham has the audacity to laugh. “Only for you, Samuel.” 

Sammy fists his hands in Grisham’s shirt and tie, yanking him closer. “It’s Sammy—no, fuck that, it’s  _ Stevens _ to you. You don’t get first name privileges.” 

“What a shame. And here I was thinking we were friends.” Sammy can’t pretend something in him doesn’t pulse, hot and needy, at the way Grisham’s voice goes low on  _ friends _ . Grisham drapes his arms around Sammy’s shoulders loosely, like he doesn’t even have to try to keep Sammy close. “Take me home,  _ Sammy _ ,” he demands. 

He does not look like a man who has ever been told no. 

“Absolutely fucking not,” Sammy snarls, and pushes back away from Grisham. 

“Guys, could you—” the bartender tries to interrupt, but neither of them are listening. 

Sammy walks backward until he hits a table, and Grisham matches him step for step. He’s shorter than Sammy (not by as much as Ben is, but it’s not hard to be taller than Ben) and slimmer, but by sheer force of ego seems to take up twice as much space. 

“Scared, Stevens? Of little old me?” Grisham won’t stop fucking smirking and Sammy  _ knows _ he’s being goaded and doesn’t care. 

“Fuck you,” he spits, and punches the mayor for the first time. He gets the distinct feeling that it won’t be the last. 

Grisham finally,  _ finally _ , stops grinning at Sammy like he’s the Chesire fucking Cat and punches Sammy back. It hurts but at least it feels like something, a real, actual feeling in the midst of metaphors and pretenses. 

That’s when the bartender kicks them out. 

They keep fighting in the alley outside, slamming into each other with a rage neither of them are allowed to admit to anywhere else in their lives. 

Sammy slams Grisham up against the wall, high enough that Grisham can barely stand on his tiptoes. He grabs Grisham by the throat with one hand, tightening his grip just enough to let Grisham know he’s there. “Has anyone ever told you how much of an infuriating asshole you are?”

Grisham laughs again, and the bitter edge to it is more real than any of his fake smiles throughout the night. “Usually not until the second date,  _ shotgun _ .” And before Sammy can demand an explanation or drop Grisham in shock at hearing a nickname he  _ never _ wanted to hear again, Grisham kisses him. 

He tastes like metal and salt. There’s blood on someone’s lip—Sammy isn’t sure whose. Probably both. There’s a not-small part of Sammy that wants to say  _ to hell with this _ , and shove his thigh between Grisham’s and let the perfectly-put-together mayor get off on whatever friction Sammy will give him, right here in this damn alleyway. 

But King Falls is too small of a town for that. It’s a nice enough evening that sooner or later, someone is bound to walk down this street. And even if it would be nice to drag Grisham’s name through the mud like that, Sammy would really like to keep his job. 

Sammy steps back but drags Grisham along by his tie, keeps him close enough that they’re stepping on each other’s feet. He shoves Grisham into the passenger seat of his car. 

On the drive to his place, he can fucking feel smugness radiating from Grisham’s seat. He doesn’t dare look over at Grisham; he doesn’t think he can bear direct exposure to it. 

Sammy pulls up outside his apartment complex. Turns off his car. 

“Are you going to invite me up for coffee?” Grisham inquires. When Sammy does look at him, Grisham has flipped down the mirror visor from the ceiling and is looking at the bruises on his own face, tilting it back and forth in the glow of the evening. 

He’s… unfairly pretty. A ruddy mark just starting to turn purple in the center blooms on his cheekbone, contrasting with bright blood beading on his lips and streaking his chin. 

Sammy wants to strangle him. He drags Grisham into a kiss instead, licks at his lip until he starts tasting iron, and jerks away. “Come on.” 

Grisham is, for once, silent as he follows Sammy up to his apartment. They stand just inside the door as Sammy locks it, lit in turns with stark brilliance and deep shadow by the setting sun. Sammy turns to face Grisham. “I told you I wasn’t going to ask again.” 

“You won’t need to,” Grisham promises. Sammy doesn’t believe him for a second. “I’ll tell you what I want.” He steps forward until their chests brush and lays his hand on Sammy’s chest. “I want you to take out all that anger, all that frustration, everything you’ve ever tamped down behind all those little snarky comments and put-upon maturity—" 

“Oh, it’s out!”

Grisham fists Sammy’s shirt and yanks Sammy down with enough speed that their foreheads knock together. “—And I want you to  _ fuck me _ .” 

Sammy laughs at that. If only any other fucking person in his life would tell him things so easily. It rings hollow, but he doesn’t think Grisham notices. That’s fine. He doesn’t need Grisham to notice anything. He grabs Grisham around the waist and puts every ounce of strength into heaving him up, throwing him over his shoulder in a rough fireman’s carry. 

“I—what! Stevens, what on earth are you doing?”

“You asked,” Sammy snaps. “Jesus, do you fill your pockets with rocks?” He gets the two of them into his bedroom and dumps Grisham onto the bed unceremoniously. “Lube and condoms are in the bedside table.” 

“How convenient.” 

Sammy takes a second while he’s undressing to flip Grisham the bird. He doesn’t make a show of getting undressed, but he doesn’t hurry, either. He settles onto the bed, naked and hard and too turned on to care about how he looks. 

Grisham is too busy with his own clothes to look at Sammy, anyway. He folds his suit coat and slacks carefully, setting them off to the side like they aren’t already rumpled beyond the capacity of any iron. 

He loosens his tie and goes to slip the loop over his head. 

“Wait—” Sammy’s mouth says before he gives it permission. 

Grisham smiles at him and it’s a disbelieving sort of glee, like a cat that can’t believe the canary would unlock its cage without the cat even having to ask. 

He holds out the end of his tie out to Sammy. 

When Sammy takes it from him, their fingers brush. Sammy reels Grisham in slowly, and Grisham doesn’t even pretend to resist. He leans on Sammy’s thighs, clad in nothing but his buttoned shirt and tie. His cock peeks out from under it, pink and shiny. 

Sammy looks him up and down, and Grisham lets him look. More than ‘let,’ actually. Grisham is grinning, and it’s the first time Sammy’s seen a smile take up so much space on his face. Sammy reaches out to thumb at the edges of that smile, and Grisham closes his eyes and leans into the touch. 

It’s the gentlest they’ve been all night, and it hurts more than any of the fighting did. 

Sammy squeezes his eyes shut and lets go of Grisham’s tie to shove him down onto his back. Grisham bares his teeth and laughs sharp enough to cut glass. He’s breathing hard already, head tipped back against the pillow. 

Usually, Sammy likes to think he’s nice about this. He spent a good chunk of his early adulthood having sex with people he wasn’t actually attracted to; he knows how to make something good for others no matter what his feelings are about them. 

But he can’t shake this anger, the fierce need to take every one of Grisham’s carefully sculpted layers and rip them apart until he finds whatever kind of man he is underneath, and to show whoever that is to the world.  _ This _ , he wants to tell the whole damn town,  _ is the kind of man you’d elect and re-elect again. This one, beneath me, so… so…  _ And that’s where the fantasy ends because he can’t fucking tell what Grisham is, what he wants, not really. 

So he takes that feeling and opens Grisham up fast and rough, drizzling lube over his fingers and Grisham’s ass without hesitation. 

And… Sammy doesn’t want to compare anything about this to Ben. 

But Grisham is quieter than Ben. He’s no less responsive—arching his back and fisting his hands into the sheets are more than enough to tell Sammy when he’s doing something right—but he never makes a sound louder than a breathy sigh. 

He doesn’t look at Sammy the way Ben does, or talk to him. 

And that’s  _ fine _ , Sammy doesn’t want that right now, he doesn’t want to think about Ben at all. Ben can go fuck whoever he wants. It’s fine. 

Sammy rolls the condom on and pretends his hands aren’t shaking with anger or stress or any other emotion. He fucks Grisham fast and rough, and at  _ that _ Grisham starts to make sounds. Sharp little  _ ha, ha, ha _ ’s, every time Sammy thrusts in. 

“This what you wanted?” he gets out.

Grisham doesn’t seem to hear him, or if he does, he isn’t paying attention. 

Sammy thrusts in and stays there, grinding his hips in tiny circles against Grisham’s. He grabs Grisham’s tie again and yanks him up. “I asked if this was what you wanted.” 

Grisham rolls his hips up so his hard cock grazes Sammy’s stomach, dribbling precum everywhere. “That answer enough?” he growls. 

“No,” Sammy says, and he releases Grisham’s tie so he falls backwards onto the bed. Grisham can’t get friction this way, no matter how much he tries to thrust up. Sammy leans over him, careful to avoid touching his dick, and pins him to the bed by his throat. “I need you to say it.” 

Grisham’s eyes are dark and desperate, and he doesn’t respond for a long, long moment. Sammy starts thrusting again, never pulling all the way out. 

“I—God,  _ yes,” _ Grisham admits, and the next time Sammy pushes in he  _ squeezes _ Grisham’s throat, just a little, and Grisham comes with a soft, desperate cry. He tenses around Sammy when he does, and that’s enough to tip Sammy over the edge as well. 

[](https://twitter.com/RoombaThatFuks)

Sammy doesn’t bother pulling out yet, just slumps down over Grisham and tries to catch his breath. He will, he thinks, be dealing with the consequences of this for a very, very long time. But right now there’s at least something similar to an afterglow, fading like the last grasping fingers of the sunset coming in through the curtains. 

Consequences can wait till the sun goes down. 

**Author's Note:**

> this is ENTIRELY the fault of the samben discord and i love you all for it deeply. let's hear it for samsham 2k19!!! (i'm sorry domi i'm sticking with this ship name)  
side note, that poor fucking bartender did not ask for these horny angry assholes. i'm so sorry unnamed side character you didn't deserve that


End file.
